It’s one of those days since he died when

I see people in the crowd who look like friends  
from two thousand miles away.  
                                    There’s a profile like Judy’s 
with the same austere short hair and deep-set eyes. 
I catch myself tearing up. 
                                    Look, the neighbor boy Ian 
stands by the fountain, no matter he’s now grown 
and works in Hollywood. 
                                    The Mexican polka band 
has no tuba but a plugged-in keyboard oom-pahs- 
oom-pahs. When the singer 
                                    turns he is my poetry prof 
who learned remote viewing at the Monroe Institute 
and still plays chess. 
                                    No one looks like my Tom. 
A forgotten librarian salsas by double time 
in this audience of dancers. 
                                    Floating crowd faces multiply                        
inside my mind like wet petals—apparitions 
of long-term grief. 
                                    It’s one of those days.  
You, Reader, pass by and look familiar even though 
we do not touch. 
                                    We have never even met.